


Stuck in Reverse

by Swordy



Series: You've Done All the Things... [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken Bones, Broken Dean, Caring Sam, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Permanent Injury, Post-Purgatory, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4625796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'You've Done All the Things That Could Kill You Somehow'. Dean thinks he’s doing better. Sam’s not so sure...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck in Reverse

**Author's Note:**

> As this is a sequel to 'You've Done All the Things That Could Kill You Somehow', it would make sense to read that first, but in a nutshell, Dean is back from Purgatory thanks to a ritual Sam found, but there are two problems: he's damaged both mentally and physically and he's reappeared on the other side of the world. Now released from the hospital, the boys are settling into life in the English countryside to continue Dean's recovery...
> 
> Thanks as always to thruterryseyes for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine. Now with awesome art by siennavie! :)

They’ve been living in Bramley for almost two weeks. At times it feels like they arrived hours ago, other times it’s like they’ve been here for months. In that time, they’ve settled into a routine of sorts, which Sam finds incredible considering they basically have nothing to do.

Right now, Dean is sitting in the garden, staring out across the rolling Surrey countryside. This is him acceding to Sam’s request that he try to spend a little time outside each day, even though his reluctance is clear. He’s there in body, but whether he’s there in spirit is an entirely different matter.

Sam glances out of the kitchen window and sighs at what he sees. Dean is sitting rigid in the lawn chair, right arm held tight to his chest, pulled in by his left. His eyes are masked by the dark glasses, but his mouth is drawn into a thin line, communicating his unhappiness. In front of him sits a clock that counts down the twenty minutes he’s agreed to stay out here.

There’s not a flicker of movement until the countdown reaches zero, then Dean stands and walks stiffly back into the house, passing his brother without a word. Sam closes his eyes. So far, today’s not proving to be one of Dean’s better days. 

It had been four a.m. when Sam had been woken by a noise outside. Heart rate escalating, he’d hurried to the window once he’d realised that his brother’s bed was empty. Alarm had quickly been replaced with confusion when he’d discovered Dean was out there under the hood of their car, working away without an apparent care in the world.

This is yet another of Dean’s post-Purgatory’s idiosyncrasies that hadn’t manifested itself until his release from hospital. Sam accepts Dean’s always functioned with minimal rest, but he still managed to follow a fairly ordinary day and night schedule. Even if he couldn’t sleep, he’d read or watch the TV with the sound down low. 

Now, it seems like time has no meaning whatsoever for his brother. Sam’s realised that Dean isn’t up at all hours because he can’t sleep. He’s doing jobs – like last night’s engine tinkering – because in Dean’s mind it needed doing and why not at four a.m.? _I don’t get what the problem is_ , Dean had said when Sam had pointed out that it could have waited ‘til daylight hours.

And Sam knows his brother well enough to know that Dean’s not just being childish or belligerent when he says this. The look on his face had been one of pure confusion and Sam’s stomach had lurched a little at the sheer _brokenness_ of it.

Sam figures he may as well start making them some lunch. He opens the cupboard nearest where he’s standing and sighs again. 

It’s empty. 

A marker of _how_ bad it is this time can be found in the fact that the box of baking soda, left by a previous tenant, has also disappeared along with the shopping he bought only yesterday.

It takes him a good twenty minutes, but eventually he locates the contents of their cupboards, secreted under the bed in one of the empty bedrooms. He notes this is another new hiding place and realises that Dean is never using the same place twice. He wonders how long it will be before he has to start including the outside space in his searches too.

At first it was just bits: a bag of potato chips here, a box of rice there. Given his permanent state of exhaustion, Sam had initially figured he'd just forgotten to buy them. Then the volume of goods disappearing increased and some cereal, that he could vividly recall buying had vanished and he'd known it definitely wasn't the workings of a wearied brain.

Leaving the stuff where he's found it for now, he goes to find Dean. When he'd finally cottoned onto what Dean was doing he'd spoken to him, but clearly the message needs repeating. Dean is sitting in the living room staring at nothing. He will watch television, but only if it's already on when he enters the room, like now.

"Hey, Dean?" he begins, aiming to sound cheery, but even he's wincing at how false it sounds. He sits down beside his brother. "I was just going to make us something to eat, but the bread's not in the cupboard." _And the soup, and the tuna, and the soda..._

"Yeah?" Dean replies, sounding not remotely interested. He doesn't look up either.

Well, it's a reaction at least. Dean still has days where he's completely non-communicative and so far today seemed to be shaping up to be another one, but his answer, albeit just one word, says different.

“Yeah. Any idea where I can find it?”

Even though he knows, he wants to see if Dean will tell him. Dean eventually turns away from the television, but doesn’t make eye contact, his gaze fixing on a spot just over Sam’s left shoulder.

“I... I don’t know,” Dean replies with a frown.

Sam nods, trying not to show his frustration. So far, he’s been unable to work out whether Dean genuinely can’t remember or whether he won’t say. Sam also can’t decide which would be worse - that Dean’s having absences or that he’s lapsing back into thinking Sam’s the enemy from time to time.

“It’s okay, man,” Sam replies, patting Dean’s shoulder supportively as he moves to stand. He studies his brother for a moment. “You know you’re safe, right?”

He waits a beat in case Dean is going to say something, but silence is his only reply.

OoOoO

The conversation doesn’t improve any over the course of the day. Sam keeps himself occupied with jobs around the house, periodically checking on his brother, who barely moves from his position on the couch. The television’s off now, but Dean has silently resisted all Sam’s suggestions to read or listen to the iPod full of classic rock that Sam had put together for him when he was in the hospital.

The complete inaction makes Sam antsy. Pre-Purgatory Dean was never content doing nothing, like silence and stillness was personally offensive to him. After the Leviathans broke his brother’s leg, Dean had the TV on permanently, read books, even did _crossword puzzles_ – anything to stave off the boredom. _This_ Dean, however, can spend hours upon hours sitting and staring at nothing.

At least Sam _hopes_ it’s nothing.

At times he wishes he could see inside his brother’s head, just to catch a glimpse of whatever’s going on in there. Other times, when his own brush with madness is a memory he can recall only too vividly, he’s glad he can’t.

The isolated nature of their lodgings is both a blessing and a curse. Days like this, Sam hates the lack of human contact, but it reduces his anxiety that Dean may be a danger to himself and others if they lived somewhere more populated. When updating Jody, Sam has described his brother’s moods as mercurial but, if he’s honest, ‘volatile’ is a much better word.

The next day, he’s daring himself to hope that yesterday was a temporary blip in his brother’s recovery. Dean is a little bit more communicative this morning, even smiling at something he says at breakfast. He leaves Dean watching daytime television while he decides to capitalize on the good weather and mow the lawn out back.

It’s warmer than he thinks and after twenty minutes or so he’s stopping to strip off his shirt and pull his hair into a scruffy ponytail so it’s out of his face while he works. With the sun on his back he acknowledges the satisfaction of physical activity, even through mundane chores like this. These are the moments he thinks that retirement wouldn’t be so bad.

He’s bending down, trying to figure out if the lawn mower should be making such a weird noise when the door behind him bursts open so violently it slams into the wall. He looks up to see Dean, chest heaving with a palpable fury. Sam's instinctually on guard because danger has ridden right into the middle of this sunny Thursday afternoon and is circling eagerly, waiting for something to happen.

“Dean?” 

He’s hesitant, maybe a little fearful, although whether that’s for him or Dean he can’t decide. He realises belatedly that Dean isn’t wearing his sunglasses. Until darkness falls, it’s rare that he sees his brother’s eyes anymore, but at the moment, they’re on show. They’re also wild and unfocused. 

"Just tell me why you're helping me!" Dean yells. "What the fuck do you want from me, huh? Just tell me!"

He's stuck for an answer, primarily because he hasn't got a clue what Dean's on about, but his brother's clearly not done yet anyway.

"No one helps here unless they want something, so what is it that you want from me? My soul? My skin? _What?_ "

Sam realises that he's gone from clueless to painfully clued up in an instant. Suddenly, it's obvious, because although Dean is looking at him and addressing him, it's not reality that Dean's concerned with right now. He's still formulating a response when Dean's arm comes up and the next thing he knows, a rock is whistling towards his head.

His reactions are a little rusty, but he's saved from injury because Dean's throwing with his left hand. The rock disappears over his shoulder, but he doesn't hang around to see if Dean has anything else to launch at him. He scrambles to his feet.

"Shit, Dean, _stop!_ "

His heart sinks because frankly, his brother looks _crazy_. Dean's pacing, his damaged hand pulled tight into his chest and he's muttering under his breath. Sam's about to say something when Dean freezes, his expression instantly collapsing in conjunction with his fury.

"Just tell me what you want," Dean repeats, although now he sounds like he's on the verge of breaking down and _fuck_ , if somehow this isn't worse than having things thrown at him. 

"I can't do this anymore. I just _can't_. I'm tired; _I'm just so fucking tired..._ " Dean sinks to the floor, arms over his head, his one good hand gripping his hair tightly. 

Sam's torn - he wants to approach, but given Dean's current proclivity for throwing things it seems prudent to maintain a safe distance. 

"Dean," he says, aiming - he hopes - for the tone that brooks no protest. " _Dean_."

After a few agonising moments, Dean's breathing slows. The tension starts to bleed from his hunched posture, giving Sam the signal to try again.

"Dean? Can you remember where you are?"

As he's about to give up on a response, Dean says, "I... I don't know. It's so dark."

Sam can't help but turn back to the garden, bathed in the glorious July sunshine, and the white-hot rage inside him wishes that Dick Roman was here so he could rip the bastard to pieces for sending Dean to Purgatory and turning him into... _this_.

"Dean. We're in England. You're safe, man, I swear. Remember, stone number one, okay?"

He finishes with the axiom that - _touch wood_ \- seems to get through to Dean at times like this. It clearly hasn't lost its magic when Dean, slowly, looks up and Sam realises he can breathe again.

"Sammy?" Dean says, and his hesitancy indicates they're not out of the woods yet. As far as his brother's concerned he could be a shifter, lulling him into the false sense of security that could only spell disaster.

“It’s me, Dean,” he replies, moving closer to help Dean stand. He grips his brother’s shoulders and helps him up off the floor. Dean’s return to reality is complete when he shrinks from the sunlight, his eyes narrowing to minimise his pain.

“Headache,” Dean mumbles.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” he replies, putting his arm around Dean’s shoulders and guiding him back into the house. Dean allows himself to be led, but Sam still has to laugh when Dean twists his head to look at him and says, “You need a damn haircut, Sammy. Your hair looks ridiculous like that.” 

OoOoO

He gives Dean some painkillers and persuades him to go lie down. The drugs are strong and Dean’s often disoriented when he’s taken them, so combining them with sleep is the most sensible course of action. It’s a measure of how much pain Dean is in that he agrees to take them at all – he dislikes the lack of control they cause him so will only take them when absolutely necessary, no matter how much Sam might think he needs them. Dean was also prescribed sleeping pills, but he’s even more reluctant to take them and Sam has had to accept that that’s a battle for another day.

Knowing Dean will be out for several hours, he takes the opportunity to go and get some supplies. It’s good to be out in the car, and he decides to go into the next town to the larger supermarket rather than stop at Bramley’s village store. 

He tries to vary where they get their goods from – he doesn’t want to become a feature in the village, but similarly, _never_ being seen will also fuel speculation and curiosity, which he also doesn’t want.

He’s after a little anonymity today – a little time in his own head space – but luck isn’t on his side when he hears a voice calling his name as he’s browsing the fresh produce.

“Sam? It’s Sam, isn’t it?”

He takes a deep, centering breath and turns, a smile painted on his face.

“Hi. It’s, uh, Mrs. Stokes, right?”

The older lady beams, evidently pleased that he’s remembered her name. He doesn’t like to tell her he was warned about her when they’d first arrived in Bramley. ‘Bloody Busybody’ is the term he believes their landlord used.

“Fancy seeing you in here!”

He nods, forcing back the image of Dean rolling his eyes and muttering, ‘ _Newsflash, lady. People gotta eat_ ’.

“Yeah. Just getting some groceries.”

He can see the old woman’s eyes flicking around as if she’s looking for something.

“Is...um, your brother not with you, dear?”

_Ah_ , now we get to the point, Sam thinks. He knows Bramley’s residents are aware that someone is living in the farmhouse. Their landlords, with their blessing, have made it known that they are two brothers, one of whom has been badly injured in a recent accident, and they are living in the house so that he can recover in peace and solitude. 

This has ensured that even those who normally considered themselves the village welcoming committee have been persuaded to stay away, but it clearly hasn’t _completely_ allayed the curiosity in a place where very little changes from year to year.

“Uh, no, ma’am,” he replies with an easy smile, going for that all-American boy charm that, with every passing year and every life-changing disaster, is harder and harder to muster. “My brother’s at home, resting.”

Her expression becomes sympathetic as she clucks her tongue. “Oh, the poor love. Was it a car accident?”

He’s got to admire her persistence. When they’d first arrived, they’d figured that despite their plea for privacy, there would be times where they had to say _something_ , so he’s ready with the cover story.

“No. My brother was in the military - special ops. I’m sorry; I can’t say too much.”

“Oh, no, no, no, you mustn’t!” Mrs. Stokes replies, changing her tune instantly. “If it’s a matter of national security.”

Sam smiles gratefully. “I appreciate your understanding, ma’am.”

She excuses herself and leaves and Sam wonders how long it’ll be before the entire village is privy to that nugget of information. Their cover story allows them to kill two birds with one stone – if people think Dean is ex-military, then they won’t expect details if they think that the information is classified. 

Sam also figures it’s more plausible than a car accident, should any of the villagers bear witness to Dean’s psychological scars.

He buys groceries and picks up some DVDs and a couple of games for the PS3 console he bought when they first arrived. As far as he’s aware, Dean hasn’t actually played on it, but he’s found it a godsend for passing the hours when Dean’s been sleeping, especially since their internet connection is variable, at best.

As he drives home he finds himself mulling over the day’s events. Since he was able to spring Dean from the hospital, he’s never been under any illusion that caring for his brother single-handed would be easy, but the lack of _real_ progress is a bitter pill to swallow.

Naively, he now realises, he’d figured that once it was just the two of them, Dean would improve, but there haven’t been any days so far where Dean has been Dean again. He knows in his heart that it’s too soon really, but he _had_ imagined that it could be a possibility for the future. He certainly hadn’t anticipated that Dean might get _worse_ , and he wearily acknowledges that on some occasions, that’s exactly how he’d describe it.

The other nightmare looming on the horizon is the date circled on their calendar, now only a matter of days away. Part of Dean avoiding mandatory psychiatric care was their agreement that he would return for any assessments deemed necessary by those who had cared for him when he was in the hospital. 

The appointment with his brother’s consultant is less of a concern – Dean has continued to put on weight and the time spent outside, albeit under duress, has put some much-needed colour back in his skin. Dean’s not expressed any desire to subject himself to the surgeries on his hand and arm and Sam hasn’t pushed it either so he’s expecting Dean’s consultant to discharge him from his care.

The main issue is the appointment with the psychologist that’s also been scheduled for when they return to London. He’s talked to Dean repeatedly about the fact that they _need_ to attend this appointment or the authorities may decide that he needs committing for involuntary psychological evaluation, which will make their situation infinitely more complicated. He’s also tried to explain how going on the run in this country isn’t really an option, but he’s not completely sure about how much Dean appreciates the importance of playing by the rules, however briefly.

Dean is still sleeping when he arrives back at the house. He puts away the groceries and decides to start making them some dinner. He’s just considering whether to go and wake his brother when there’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Shortly afterwards, Dean appears in the kitchen, his hair sleep-mussed and his expression indicating that he’s just woken up.

Sam experiences a flare of anxiety because he’s never sure what he’s going to get with his brother lately, but Dean is clearly in a much better place than he was earlier. He’s not holding a projectile, at any rate.

“Hey, man. You ready to eat?” he asks.

Dean nods. “You need me to do anything?”

“Drinks would be good.”

They sit and eat mostly in silence. Dean still occasionally has moments when he wants to eat by himself, but even when he’s happy to have Sam in the same room, the conversation can be fairly limited. After their meal, television fills the conversational void until they turn in for the night.

The following day, Dean voluntarily joins him while he’s doing some work in one of the outbuildings behind the house. Dean helps as best he can, but it’s clear his brother’s damaged hand is a huge source of frustration for him and Sam almost asks him if it’s given him second thoughts about the possibility of surgery.

Despite this, it’s a _good_ day overall. It’s hard to say why exactly, but Dean just seems more _present_ than he has ever since they arrived in Bramley. He asks Sam about the village since Sam’s been the one to check out the local amenities - the _first_ time he’s even enquired about where they’re living. He talks about some of the projects Sam has said they’re going to do on the house – a win-win situation that will give them something to do _and_ give them a reduction in the monthly rent. 

Over dinner, Sam’s hesitant to kill his brother’s improved mood, but knows that he needs to remind Dean that they’ve got those appointments tomorrow. Dean nods and says that he’d remembered. When Sam asks how he’s feeling about them, Dean shrugs and says that he’ll just be glad when they’re over. Sam’s prepared to chalk that up as a win and the knot of anxiety in his stomach loosens just a little. They both head off to bed a little after eleven, knowing they’ll have to be up reasonably early in order to make the drive back to London.

OoOoO

Sam wakes to something thumping into his chest. He’s asleep, but not so deeply that he doesn’t know danger when he feels it and he moves to roll away, just as something sharp stabs into his side. Instinctively he kicks out and is rewarded by a solid thud as his foot connects with something fleshy. He’s awake in an instant. The room is dark, but he can still make out the figure now trying to recapture some of the air that was booted out of its lungs by his kick. He takes the opportunity to glance down where he sees his fingers are now stained red.

“ _Dean?_ ” he gasps, even though he can see it’s his brother before his very eyes. Dean is clutching a weapon – one of the screwdrivers they were using earlier – in his left hand and he’s not looking in Sam’s direction at all. Without warning, Dean drops the tool and heads out of the room.

He’s instantly torn between following Dean to see what his brother’s going to do next and checking that he’s not about to die of blood loss. He goes to the door in time to see Dean heading back into his bedroom. The door closes, followed by the creak of furniture. Sam’s not sure whether to be horrified or stunned that Dean’s just walked into his room in the dead of night, punched him, stabbed him with a screwdriver and then _gotten back into bed as if nothing happened_.

Satisfied that Dean’s not about to go missing, he goes to the bathroom to check out the damage. Under the harsh fluorescent, the first thing that hits him is his haggard features in the mirror above the sink. Dean’s previous nocturnal wanderings have previously only resulted in car repairs and Sam acquiring bags under _his_ eyes, but it’s clear that sleep deprivation is really starting to take its toll, judging by the face staring back at him. 

He lifts his t-shirt to see the wound. Without a doubt Dean had intended to go for his chest, but the warning shots – Dean’s fist and elbow he’s guessing – probably saved his life. He uses a damp washcloth to clean away the blood, discovering the puncture wound in his side. Fortunately it’s not too deep and the bleeding is already starting to slow. He patches it up and leaves the bathroom. 

The house is still quiet, but he heads to Dean’s room and listens at the door. For a moment he debates with himself what to do next, before he pushes open the door and looks into the darkened room. Dean is in bed under the covers and the steady rhythmic breathing says he isn’t feigning sleep. Sam watches him for a moment, just to be sure, before he turns and goes back to his own room. He picks up the bloodied screwdriver and hides it under his pillow before he climbs back into bed himself.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t go back to sleep.

When daylight starts to creep through the curtains he figures he’s been lying here long enough. There’s no sound of movement from Dean’s room so he goes to take a shower first. He eases off his t-shirt and winces at the view that greets him in the mirror. Probably because he’d been half-asleep, the punches hadn’t felt that bad at the time. Now, his chest is mottled in several places, hinting at the rainbow of bruises that will follow soon enough. He then pulls off the patch of gauze and inspects the stab wound.

He redresses it once he’s showered and heads back to his bedroom to get his clothes on. There’s still no sign of Dean so he goes downstairs to fix breakfast. Half way through his bowl of cereal, Dean appears.

“Hey,” Dean says, before he yawns deeply. “You should have woke me up.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry,” he replies, his spoon still frozen mid-way to his mouth.

Dean nods, then looks past him. “Coffee?”

“I just made some.” 

He watches as Dean walks over to the coffee pot. So far there’s no indication that his brother’s going to say anything about last night and the thought starts to germinate that Dean might not actually remember what happened.

He knows he’s still sporting a slight deer-in-the-headlights look when Dean sits down across from him. Dean frowns.

“You okay, Sammy?”

The concern in his brother’s expression cements his suspicions that Dean doesn’t remember anything. If that’s the case then Dean doesn’t need to know why he’s quietly freaking out – not today, anyway.

“Yeah,” he replies, forcing a smile. “Just thinking about today. I just wanna make sure that we get there in plenty of time.”

“You sure that’s it?”

“Huh?” Sam’s thrown as he meets Dean’s searching gaze. “Yeah, of course.”

Dean nods, more so to himself. 

“I wouldn’t blame you for having doubts about me, Sammy, but it’ll be okay.” For just a split second, he sounds like the unshakeable big brother that he was for so many years. 

“Because I’ve been thinking, anyway; I’m gonna take some of those pills that the doc gave me before we go.”

Dean pauses and studies his coffee for a moment before he continues. 

“I think I’ll be okay being back at the hospital, but it can’t hurt to have something that’ll chill me out a little, just in case.” He looks up suddenly and meets Sam’s gaze, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Don’t wanna give them any reason to think I’m crazy, huh?”

Sam huffs a laugh that he doesn’t feel. 

OoOoO

They set off within the hour. Dean follows through with his plan to take some of the meds he’d been prescribed – the anti-anxiety pills contain a mild sedative that, combined with the movement of the car, send Dean back to sleep for most of the journey. He stirs as they reach the capital. Sam glances over, but with Dean’s eyes hidden behind his dark glasses it’s virtually impossible to tell how well he’s taking being somewhere so densely populated, let alone the place where this post-Purgatory chapter of his life began.

Sam has planned to park outside of the city and get a taxi so that they can be dropped at the door of University College Hospital. Dean’s quiet and Sam starts to notice the old tells are creeping in – Dean chose not to wear the sling, so he’s started to pull his right arm into his chest while they make the twenty minute ride in the black cab. Once they leave the safety of the vehicle, and enter the hospital it’s clear that Dean’s anxiety levels are soaring and for a moment Sam thinks this might be about to become a disaster. Behind the glasses he knows Dean’s eyes are darting everywhere – there are too many people, too much noise. Then a familiar voice is saying their names and he’s thrown a lifeline.

“Hi, guys,” Rachel says once she has their attention. “Do you want to come with me?”

Instantly, he’s reminded _why_ Rachel is such an amazing nurse as she leads them quickly away from the hustle of the main entrance. She’s come to greet them and, evidently seeing Dean’s discomfort, she’s about to rescue them without either of them having to utter a single word. She takes them to stairs through a set of double doors marked ‘staff only’ and doesn’t waste time with conversation until they’ve reached the sanctuary of the ward that was home to both of them for a month.

She shows them into an empty side room and even though this floor is much quieter than other parts of the hospital, she closes the door so that it’s just the three of them in there. The blinds are closed and only some of the ceiling lights are switched on. Rachel studies Dean for a moment before she turns to Sam, deferring to him as the expert on his brother.

“Dean?” he says, addressing his brother’s back as he stands facing the window. “You okay, man?”

Eventually Dean turns and slowly removes his sunglasses. It takes a moment, but his eyes rise to meet Sam’s and he nods, before his gaze finally lands on Rachel. A small smile plays at his lips, but it’s clear he’s finding this harder than he thought.

“Hey, Dean,” Rachel says gently, her smile fond. “You’re looking well. The country air obviously agrees with you.”

Dean’s own smile grows to look a little less of an effort. He nods in acknowledgement of the compliment. 

“You boys want a drink?” she asks. When they say that they do, she adds, “Coffee, right? Or has being in England turned you into hardened tea drinkers yet?”

She disappears to get their drinks, leaving them alone for a few minutes. Dean still has this look that says he can’t get a handle on how he’s feeling right now, so Sam tells him to come and sit down. He’s surprised when Dean actually does so.

“Dean?”

“I’m okay, Sam,” his brother replies quickly. “It’s just hospitals. Man, I hate the places.”

Sam nods, hit suddenly by a wave of memories of them just strolling into hospitals and police precincts and countless other places without a second thought, carried simply by their fake IDs and the confidence that said that they _did_ belong there. Now Dean needs drugs just to get him through the door.

“Here you go,” Rachel says as she pushes open the door and hands them each a steaming mug of coffee. 

“Now, Dr. Williams is available, so I can send him up or you can wait a little while if you need a bit more time,” she continues, addressing Dean directly.

“I’m okay,” Dean repeats, this time for the nurse’s benefit. “If he wants to come now that’s okay with me.”

“I’ll let him know and then I’ll be back to take your blood pressure and weigh you, etc., etc.” She winks at them both. “They let me do all the exciting stuff.”

Rachel leaves again. When she returns, she announces that the consultant will be on his way shortly, so she sets about doing her series of examinations. Along with the promised blood pressure check, she takes new height and weight measurements, gets Dean to give a urine sample and takes some blood from his left arm. She leaves to take the samples down to the lab as Dr. Williams has requested that they be analysed while they’re still at the hospital because he wants the results to help determine any future steps. 

While she’s gone, the door opens again and the consultant steps in. He smiles broadly upon seeing Dean, so Sam takes that to mean that he’s seeing further positive changes in his patient.

“Dean. Sam. Good to see you both. So Dean, how are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” Dean replies, with a confidence that surprises Sam. Indeed, his brother’s performance during the consultation reminds Sam why Dean is such an amazing poker player.

Satisfied that his patient’s general health is no longer a concern, the doctor carefully begins to palpate Dean’s damaged hand. In this respect Dean doesn’t – or can’t – hide his discomfort. Unsurprisingly, there’s been no miraculous improvement and the limb remains essentially useless with his broken and twisted fingers unable to grasp anything. 

“Have you had any more thoughts on surgery?” Dr. Williams asks Dean once he’s done.

Dean shakes his head. “I think I’m good at the moment.”

The doctor’s gaze flicks to Sam briefly before his attention settles on Dean once more. “I’m not saying it would restore full function, but it might help you regain _some_ movement,” the doctor continues. “It’s worth considering.”

“Yeah... I’m not in any rush,” Dean replies, unconsciously pulling the damaged limb into his chest. Despite Dean’s smile and attempt at nonchalance, Dr. Williams senses not to push it any further.

“Well, providing your bloods come back satisfactory, Dean, I think we can discharge you.”

The idea evidently appeals to his brother as Dean’s smile widens. “See, Sammy? Told you I was doing okay.”

Sam smiles back, despite the anxiety that rolls and lurches in the pit of his stomach. 

“Okay, well, if you _do_ change your mind about the surgeries while you’re still in the UK, then just put a call into my secretary and we’ll arrange the necessary appointments.”

“Thank you, for everything,” Dean says, the four words expressing a finality that says that he’s no intention of coming back. “You’ve been great, doc. Seriously.”

Sam nods emphatically, because he’s certainly not about to disagree. Dean might still have his problems, but the hospital staff have played a massive role in why Dean’s come as far as he has. 

Dr Williams advises them that once Dean’s bloods are back he’ll look over the results, but he’s not expecting there to be anything significant, in which case they’re good to go. Sadly, it’s not that simple, because Dean’s mandated to see the psychologist next.

Sam waits with his brother until the psychologist arrives, because although Dean would never say as much, he’s clearly a little anxious about what’s to come. Penny Langley, a short woman with a warm smile and intense gaze wastes no time in expressing her desire to get started so Sam heads to the visitors cafeteria with a promise that he’ll be back in an hour.

He arrives back on the ward, just as the door opens and Dean emerges. His brother’s smiling and – crucially – the psychologist is too. Sam does his best not to look surprised.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, before he turns his attention to the woman behind him and flashing her a grin. “Least I think so anyway.” 

Sam gets it – Dean’s succeeded in charming her. She looks like she’s not sure what she’s able to say, when Dean adds, “You can say anything in front of Sammy here, I don’t mind.”

Accepting Dean’s consent, she nods. “Okay, well, yes, I believe Dean is making excellent progress with his recovery. It’s clear that he’s come a long way and he’s obviously motivated to make further gains.”

Sam nods, mirroring his brother’s apparent enthusiasm. 

“I can make a referral to local services so Dean can access counselling near where you’re living.”

“But you’re not going to recommend that he needs to access to the inpatient facility that was mentioned when he was first admitted to the hospital?” Sam clarifies.

“Oh no, absolutely not,” the psychologist replies. Having only just met Dean she sounds taken aback that this was even a possibility, which is clearly a good sign. “I’ll write a report and make my recommendations, but any further input will be Dean’s decision.” 

Dean grins again, although Sam knows without looking that there’s a tightness around his brother’s eyes that says he’s play acting. The psychologist shakes hands with both of them and leaves. Now Sam chances a glance at Dean. As expected, the barely perceptible signs of tension are there. He wonders what it says about their relationship that he’s able to correctly predict and then spot such microscopic tells.

The door at the far end of the corridor they’re standing on has barely closed behind the psychologist when it opens again, this time admitting a familiar figure.

“Saved the best ‘til last, huh?” Dean grumbles quietly, as the man appointed as his social worker spots them standing there and raises his hand in greeting. Dean’s still smiling and he waves back, but it’s clear he knows that this interview won’t be so straight forward. Christopher Ives has seen Dean at his worst and was understandably reluctant about letting him leave the hospital without a full assessment of his mental health.

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” Sam replies, similarly _sotto voce_ as the social worker draws near.

“Dean, Sam. Good to see you both.” Christopher is smiling, but unlike Dean, Sam can’t read anything from the other man’s expression. “I believe we’ve got a room we can use?”

“Right here,” Dean says, gesturing to door just behind them. 

Christopher doesn’t ask Dean for his consent for Sam to be there – as Dean’s appointed legal guardian Sam _has_ to be at this meeting. They file into the meeting room and sit, equally spaced around the circular table. 

“So, Dean,” the social worker says, his gaze flicking between the man in question and the manila folder on the table in front of him. “How have you been?”

Dean makes a show of thinking about the question for a moment before he nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’ve been okay. I mean, I’m not gonna lie and say it’s all been smooth sailing, but life never is, right?”

Christopher similarly considers the question. “Oh, I completely agree, and you’re looking really well, Dean, but even though we don’t know the details, it’s clear that you went through an extremely traumatic experience and my primary concern is that you’re accessing support to deal with that.”

Sam risks a glance at his brother – the smile is still there, but it’s clearly more effort than it was thirty seconds ago. Dean’s left hand rubs absently at the sleeve of his jacket as he cradles his damaged right arm. The action is unconscious, but there’s something defensive about the motion. After a moment Dean nods tightly.

“Like I said, I’m doing okay. That right, Sammy?”

Sam startles. His brother’s looking at him pointedly now, waiting for confirmation that what he’s saying is true.

“Uh, yeah. Dean’s been having some trouble sleeping, but he’s got meds that he can take.” _Not that he ever takes them_ , he sensibly doesn’t add. “Other than that, yeah, he’s doing really well.”

The social worker studies them both for a moment, presumably looking for any signs of deception before he continues.

“I know this might be a difficult question, but have there been any more violent outbursts?”

The other man glances at Dean, but it’s clear the question is really being addressed to Sam. The knot in Sam’s gut tightens and he doesn’t know whether to be ashamed or relieved that he’s such an accomplished liar.

“No, nothing like that. Like I said, Dean’s not always sleeping, but he’s doing really well otherwise.”

After a few seconds, Christopher smiles and writes something down in the file. 

“That’s great.” 

There’s another period of silence, broken only by the scratching of the social worker’s pen. Sam looks over at his brother, but Dean’s gaze is fixed firmly on the table. 

“Okay, Dean,” Christopher says, once he’s finished making notes. “As you are aware, the investigation into what happened to you is still open. Do you feel you’re ready to make a statement to the police yet?”

Sam watches his brother consider this for a moment. Saying ‘no’ would indicate Dean’s perhaps not recovering mentally as well as he’s trying to make out, but what’s the point in saying ‘yes’? It’s not like he can tell them that he magically reappeared after spending an entire year fighting for his life in Purgatory - unless of course he _wants_ that one way trip to the psychiatric facility.

“Truth is, I don’t _remember_ what happened to me,” Dean replies solemnly, “and I don’t wanna push it, because like you said, it must have been extremely traumatic. Maybe in the future I’ll remember more and have something useful to tell the cops, but for now... I don’t think there’s any point.”

Sam holds his breath, releasing it only when the social worker nods his agreement. More scribbling follows.

“And finally, Dean, the other matter we need to discuss is the issue of legal guardianship. As you know, when you were first admitted to hospital you weren’t in a state to make decisions for yourself and because we had no next of kin for you, Social Services had to assume guardianship for you. That was then transferred to Sam just before you left hospital.

“Part of the psychologist’s assessment today was to determine if you now have ‘capacity’, and I’m sure that’ll be the case, seeing how well you’re doing. Once the psychologist has completed her report, and you have confirmation that she feels you don’t need that level of support, you can apply to terminate Sam’s guardianship or ‘Power of Attorney’ as it’s referred to legally. It’s a simple process – I can give you the information about how to do that, but for now are you okay with that arrangement remaining in place?”

Dean shrugs, the smile slipping back onto his face momentarily. 

“Makes no difference to me, Mr. Ives. I trust my brother with my life, so I know he’s not gonna steer me wrong.”

Sam and the social worker smile too.

“Okay, well, I guess we can wrap things up here. My best wishes for your continued recovery, Dean.”

With the meeting over, they all head out. Dean announces that he needs to use the bathroom, leaving Sam alone with the social worker. Sam sees his opportunity to ask the question that he couldn’t in front of Dean.

“So there’s no reason Dean might be committed to a psychiatric facility now?” Sam queries, wanting to be sure that they’ve definitely passed over this hurdle successfully and it’s not going to clatter to the ground behind them when they thought they were home free.

The social worker shakes his head. “The only reason we’d have to re-visit this as an option is if Dean was violent in any way, either towards himself or other people. But aside from that, no.” 

The man’s eyes narrow, as if he’s seen something in Sam’s face when he delivered that one caveat. “There _haven’t_ been any incidents, have there, Sam?”

Sam recovers quickly, back in the role of consummate liar that’s seen people believe he’s everything from an FBI agent to a priest. “No, no. I just wanted to be able to reassure Dean that he’s not going to be hauled away for no good reason.”

Any reply is interrupted as Dean emerges from the washroom, the sound of the hand dryer still blasting in the background. He sees the men standing together and grins.

“Okay, we good to go?”

Sam looks to the social worker who nods his agreement. His pulse slows a little when he realises that the man’s not going to probe any further.

“Then I guess we are,” Dean continues, offering his left hand for the social worker to shake. It’s clear he just wants to get out of here now. “Thanks for all your help.”

“You’re welcome,” Christopher replies. “I’ll be in contact in about six to eight weeks, but we can do it over the phone. Your case will almost certainly be closed at that point, unless there’s been anything that would give us reason to require a further meeting.”

Sam can’t help but notice the look fired in his direction, but Dean apparently doesn’t. They make their farewells and head out, stopping briefly to find Rachel before they go. She has Dean’s blood work and confirms that Dr. Williams is happy for him to be discharged.

“Everything go okay with the social worker?” she asks them both, knowing he wasn’t exactly their favourite person while he held the power to decide Dean’s fate.

“Yeah,” Dean says first, a little too quickly and Sam can see that his brother’s reaching the end of his ability to appear calm and rational in front of others. The fact that he’s fumbling for his glasses says he’s had enough.

“We should go, before the traffic starts getting too crazy,” Sam says, giving Rachel a nod and a look that she’ll hopefully interpret. She does.

“Okay, well it’s been great to see you guys,” she says warmly. “I guess if you don’t decide to pursue those surgeries, then this is goodbye.”

“It doesn’t have to be; we’d love you to come visit,” Sam replies, with a quick glance at Dean who nods. “You’ve got my number, give me a call when you’re free and we’ll fix something up.”

They leave straight away. Dean’s pace and posture is telegraphing his discomfort and people give them a wide berth as they head out of the hospital onto the street. They hail a cab and ride in silence, Dean cradling his arm protectively like a newborn infant. Sam’s never been so relieved to see their own car when they finally pull into the parking lot where they left it earlier.

“You okay, man?” he says, studying his brother once they’re safely inside their vehicle.

After a few moments, Dean nods slowly before he leans forward and pops the glove compartment open. He rummages amongst the CDs that they inherited when they bought the car, eventually pulling out the small vial of pills.

“Here, let me help,” Sam insists, holding his hand out for the meds.

Dean passes them over, but keeps his hand outstretched for the two capsules that Sam quickly hands back to him. He dry swallows them with a grimace.

They’ve been driving for about twenty minutes when Dean speaks, his voice holding a quality that makes him sound on the verge of sleep.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean?”

“Thanks for not saying anything before to that guy.”

Sam frowns. “Which guy?”

“The, uh, the social worker guy.”

The road they’re on is quiet so Sam takes the opportunity to glance over at his brother. Dean’s smiling slightly, his head resting on the passenger window.

“You wanna help me out here, Dean?”

Dean’s head rolls so that he’s looking over now. His eyes are hidden behind his glasses, but the smile still plays at the corner of his lips.

“About what happened. He wanted to know if I’d been violent at all. Fuck knows what would have happened if you’d told him.”

Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the road in the hope that Dean won’t notice the shock that steals across his face. He’d have sworn Dean had no recollection of his nightly wanderings, but it seems-

“I mean, I’m not proud that I threw a rock at you, Sammy, but he’d have probably blown it out of all proportion, you know?”

He _doesn’t_ remember, Sam thinks, unable to decide if that’s better or worse. 

“I mean, it’s not like I physically _attacked_ you or anything,” Dean adds with a soft laugh. “Hell, when _that_ happens, we know we’ve got problems.”

He doesn’t say anything else and after a few more minutes his breathing evens out, signalling that he’s fallen asleep. For Sam it’s a relief, because this is a conversation that he wasn’t prepared for. Dean genuinely thinks he’s doing better, which would be funny if he wasn’t so dangerous. Alone, Sam focuses on driving and tries not to think about the stab wound in his side that makes its presence known over every bump and pothole.

**End**


End file.
